


I Started Fucking Running As Soon As My Feet Touched The Ground

by sa00harine



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Allison is precious and didn't deserve to be exploited for her powers, Ben is a Great Brother who is a responsible badass, Diego has Had It (With This Shit), Grace really cares about Diego and it hurts, I guess that's what happens when you remove Five and Ben from the equation, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, No Incest, Pogo is trying to get them to be logical and stay but they're all just, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, This is really sad, Vanya Hargreeves Deserves Better, angst (of course), can I get a hell yeah for Grace and Pogo being better than Reginald, done, if you read this as incest you will internally combust, no beta I don't have the will power, none of them did, read unedited work you cowards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-03-20 09:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18989677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sa00harine/pseuds/sa00harine
Summary: A montage of how all the Hargreeves left the Academy.





	1. I'm Out Of Money and I'm Out Of My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> This was spontaneously written on a road trip! Let's see where it goes now!  
> Nothing here was checked twice please don't @ me, I'm illiterate. 
> 
> Chapter title from the most Klaus song I can think of: Lousy Connection by Ezra Furman.

It was Klaus who left first. Did he leave if he never told anyone? Or did he just escape? Was it goodbye if the only indicator of his absence was the careful shut of his window after he slipped out? Was it forgotten luggage if his fingerprints were still engraved on the glass up until Grace cleaned it?   
It was anybody's guess.   
  
Even the most brutal of the thunderstorms couldn't compare to the deafening, uncouth cries of the ghosts. Klaus lays back, seventeen years old and balancing a joint between his chapped lips. Headphones plug his ears to the point where it's all beginning to ache- the blaring of the music and the chafing of the plastic.   
Music and rumbles from the sky help to drown out the lowest of the screams- but even over Ezra Furman's raucous voice, Klaus can detect the guttural sounds. With each inhale of the smoke, they become less consuming.   
He takes another hit, staring defeatedly at the marred faces writhing in his vision. They become less visible too, an eye fading here, a mouth melting there- that's what drugs did, baby.   
  
They weren't allowed to close their doors- another astute rule of dear old Dad's, so Klaus averts his eyes past the few remaining faces- that of an outraged man missing an ear and a young woman who looked as if she'd died in a fire or something. Her face was claimed by ash and soot and _gore_. The hallway lights are off, his mind isn't. The clock adjacent to the wall outside his door reads 3:43 AM. And he still wasn't asleep.   
  
Another hit. A few more. The deranged faces vanish. The high takes him nowhere. The brink of peace isn't so euphoric when he's left alone in the house that expected so much.   
  
He sulks for reasons his mind isn't put together enough to comprehend. He's always been the one to skip things. He skipped training and skipped lessons and most of all he skipped thinking a better part of the time (today he skipped humor. Usually he’d numb the open wounds by laughing at himself or doing weird shit while he was high. But tonight no matter how high he got, it wasn’t high enough). Between adrenaline and highs and lows and drinks he lost himself before he could find a way out. Out of what, Klaus didn't know. Out of the clutches of the dead and damned? Out of Reginald's bending demands and regimens? Out.   
  
Ben appears. It was an orthodox appearance after he'd died. Ben had died on a mission they thought nobody would come back from- only a month ago now. He'd made a joke that they were going to die numerical order- Five, Six, Seven. After Vanya had the sense to be afraid, he'd apologized.   
  
"No." Ben says. He's in the doorway Klaus was staring at. He'd caught Klaus the moment he'd removed his headphones, genuinely considering running away for a moment. 

Klaus would probably do just fine on the streets. He spent most of his time there anyway- and knew how to seduce or sell his way into a bed for the night. Klaus didn't see a problem. Where Reginald Hargreeves wasn't, sanity was. Though, even that was debatable at this point. 

  
"Why," Klaus says flatly. It isn't a question because he doesn't want to know the answer- but he doesn't want Ben to leave. 

  
Ben was the only one in the house who spoke to him when they weren't forcibly amiable in training. Apparently none of them believed he could see Ben, even though his entire shtick was seeing the dead. _What did they think the Seance meant?_   
  
So, Klaus was alone. For real this time. Even Diego, who'd stuck by him begrudgingly (-ish, Klaus knew he'd claimed Number Two's soft spot for good even if the tougher would die before admitting it. But as Klaus could see the dead, he would have to admit it someday) through the ups and downs, was a devoted participant to the silent treatment. Why did they all become martyrs when Ben died? They surely hadn't cared that much when Five disappeared. He'd hear Ben out because Ben was all he had. 

 

"You'll have no money, you'll starve, you'll overdose, you'll-" 

 

Klaus raises a hand to quiet him, dropping his joint in the process. With a hiss, he puts it out and tosses it aside. Ben frowns at the messy (and quite dangerous) habit. 

"That's why I have you Ben, my  _ sweet impulse control,"  _ Klaus murmurs. He calculates his volume, aware that if Reginald hears him, he'll be as good as dead. 

 

Ben crosses his arms and sits on Klaus' bed. "I don't think it's a good idea. At least steal money from Dad's wallet." 

"Can't." Klaus shakes his head. "He hides it now." 

 

The wallet was hidden after Klaus had accidentally pocketed a $50 rather than his tentative, occasional $10. 

 

Ben puts his head in his hands, staring miserably at Klaus. "What are you gonna do? Sleep on the streets and eat trash?" 

Klaus grins- full of tortured glee and blissful agony. "That's exactly what I'm gonna do." 

 

The notion was just an entertaining possibility in Klaus' head until the words slipped from his mouth. But you know what? It didn't seem so bad. Anywhere better than here- where he'd tried on Mom's heels and ate shit only to be plunged into the mausoleum for a week. Or the damned household where he'd watched one brother leave and never come back and another die (not to mention a severely neglected sister, oh and Luther, who had his head up dad’s ass 24/7 to boot). The same household that Klaus lost what it meant to be alive in. 

Being alive was hard when everything around you was dead. 

 

"You're really doing this?" Ben asks as Klaus silently picks his way out from under the knit blankets and crouches by the underside of his bed, pulling out a suitcase. 

Klaus shrugs as he domino-effects a line of half-filled and lukewarm water bottles into the suitcase. 

 

"Well, be careful. We need you." 

 

A bitter laugh comes from Klaus as he folds a few crumpled clothing items and places them in his suitcase. Ben's never heard it before and to be perfectly honest, he'd rather not hear it again. 

"Nobody here needs me. Luther just  _ can't wait  _ until I'm gone- I drag down the missions and they don't  _ need _ a lookout anyway." 

"What about that one time-" 

"That was me disobeying my place as the lookout. It doesn't count." 

Ben's jaw hangs open, unsure what to say. 

 

"Diego's had it with me too. I guess me  _ lying  _ about seeing you convinced him that Luther really is the better of the two of us! And Allison won't lose any more clothes or nail polish because I won't be there to steal it. Vanya and I don't talk much anymore anyways. See? I've thought this out!" 

 

This outburst is so characteristically  _ opposite  _ of Klaus that Ben freezes. Usually Diego or himself or Five (before Five was gone) would talk in sour tones until Klaus said something that turned their tear-lumpy throats into scratchy ones from laughter. This wasn't the Klaus that Ben knew. This was a melted, decayed version of the cheerful brother they all knew. This was what they said drugs would do to you, but this is what drugs  _ saved  _ Klaus from. This was the fucked up redemption that came from a case of being raised by  _ Reginald Fucking Hargreeves.  _

 

"Sorry for the venom," Klaus says, suddenly sheepish. Ben chooses not to comment on the single tear on his chin. Klaus is grateful.

 

"But you'll come with me right? I don't wanna be alone with the ghosts." 

 

Ben marvels sadly at how Klaus doesn't see him as a ghost, too- just his unfortunate, befallen brother who was obligingly along for the ride. 

 

"You bet your ass I will." Ben does his best to lift the heaviness that's fallen into their conversation. 

Klaus takes the hint. "Too bad you can't carry this suitcase for me," he says. "It's gonna be heavy."

Ben moves to the floor, inspecting the suitcase from where Klaus was sitting on it- stuffed with clothes. "Did you bring your whole closet?" 

 

"Everything but the uniforms," Klaus says cheekily. 

 

Ben zips up the suitcase for him while Klaus pushes every pound of his scrawny body onto the case. Ben was able to do the small things so far- pick up a book and turn the pages, tap his fingers on the desk in Klaus' room, and zip up the suitcase. He wondered what he could do if Klaus consciously helped him. 

Ben stands up after Klaus gives him a high-five that goes through his hand. That's when Ben decides that if he could ever do more than touch inanimate, small objects, the first thing he'll do is either slap Klaus or hug him. It would depend on the day. 

 

Klaus grabs the suitcase, a determined kind of pinch in his features. He looks like when they were kids- engaged in a simple game of capture the flag. (Before it turned into capture the criminals.)

 

He fetches his walkman and headphones and shoves it into the oversized pocket his his fluffy monochrome jacket. 

Then smiles at Ben. 

 

Klaus hurls the suitcase through the open window. Following sounds of the disturbance occur. A cat meows in the streets, agitated. Footsteps in the hallway. 

 

Klaus panics, a sort-of unsettling excitement on his face- eyes wide, nose scrunched, and tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. 

 

Without any hesitation, Klaus dives out the window. To Klaus' dramatic credit, thunder boomed at the  _ exact  _ same time. 

Ben panics now, looking over to see Klaus clinging onto the balcony a couple floors below. Klaus gives him a single thumbs up. His coat blows in the breeze, his hair is already dripping in the rain. 

 

Closer footsteps. Ben blinks out of existence and reappears in the alleyway below the window. Klaus' beaten (rainbow-colored) converse that he painted himself (with Allison's nail polish) kick at thin air. 

 

Ben watches with a worrying balance of amusement and terror as Klaus uses his leverage to fling himself back up. 

 

Klaus climbs steadily, gaining enough footing to reach into his room and pull his window shut, wriggling his hands out just in time before the window could slam down on them. He laughs sickeningly as he plunges down, well educated with how to catch himself when he hits the ground. 

 

Luckily, there isn't an opportunity for him to hit the ground. 

 

The dumpster catches him. Klaus gawks as he's swallowed by trash bags that if Ben could smell, probably  _ reek.  _

 

Disaster child Number Four resurfaces to the squelch of water sloshing and the popping of a few trash bags. He spits out a substance Ben doesn't want to guess and scratches the water and junk out of his scalp, shaking his head like a wet dog/

 

Klaus climbs out of the dumpster and grabs his suitcase, grumbling. (It's for show, he has a smile on his face.) 

 

"I'm not  _ nearly  _ high enough for this." 

 

Ben laughs. "What if," he lilts (with seriousness), "you weren't high at all?" 

 

"As if," Klaus huffs. 

 

They trudge on. Klaus Hargreeves and his deceased brother and the rainbow after the storm. 


	2. Ask Me Where I Come From, I'll Say a Different Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey! Sorry this took so long to publish! I was performing in a show for a bit but now I'm back and more writing is to come!  
> Hope you like it!
> 
> Chapter title is from No Roots by Alice Merton!

Klaus’ room had been empty for a week. The camera feed (Fucked up that their father had cameras in their room, but that's not relevant) had depicted him animatedly conversing with himself and then leaping out the window without further statement. A quick flash of him closing the window, and Klaus was gone. Diego was skeptical if Klaus was even alive at this point. As heroic (?) children living a life of fame, they’d also received a fair share of threats- which any malicious passerby wouldn’t pass up if they stumbled upon Klaus, who would likely be high off of his ass.

He could have stopped Klaus leaving. He knew it. But it was disrespectful of Klaus to show up to his own  _ brother’s  _ funeral with a flask tucked under his blazer and inappropriate eulogy suggestions behind his teeth like plaque. 

Klaus could have been right. Diego had no doubt that ever-so-responsible humanitarian Number Six, Ben Hargreeves would monitor them all after he died. (A terrible decision, really.) 

Klaus had been gone for a week and they were all being punished for it. (An all too similar reprise of Five and Ben’s respective ends.) 

Currently, they were on their fifteenth lap around the goddamned track their father had re-painted in the dying grass and residue of their oversized backyard every week. Diego himself was doing fine- if not grumpy (off his rocker) and nonchalantly passing Luther every so often to get a little gratification. Allison nipped at their heels, fit enough to give them a challenge. But they’d all been supremely unmotivated since their devoted  _ Number One Best Brother  _ (Klaus had stolen a mug and claimed the words were true of him a few years ago) and collective comic relief and sibling that made their pent up insides loosen up from laughter had vanished. 

Nobody had acknowledged just how much emptier the house felt- no singing loudly from the shower while Reginald yelled crossly and no crying out in the night. 

Oddly enough, Klaus’ flighty demeanor had kept them grounded. 

 

The last of the twentieth lap looms in front of the three, tied and tired. Reginald, stiffly standing at the edge of the red-marked finish line, yells at them to  _ not break stride Number Three  _ and  _ keep focus Number Two  _ and  _ straighten up Number One!  _ Vanya blows her whistle as Allison surges ahead. Number Seven, the failed vivisection of their father, is sullen and eyeing them blankly as they skid to a halt. 

Luther and Diego wait as Allison and Vanya depart, inevitably about to get berated. 

Reginald, surprisingly enough, meets them halfway. 

 

“What did you two do that rendered you?”

“My posture was bad and I started to slow down,” Luther says, head down like an obedient dog. Diego wanted to laugh. 

“Wasn’t focused,” is all Diego offers. 

Reginald frowns. “Group training in ten minutes. Get ready and be in the training room by then. Dismissed.” 

 

How was it that their mother, who was actually a robot, showed more emotion than their father, who was  _ human?  _

Ah, hubris. 

 

He ambles to his room, shedding his shorts and shirt in favor of the typical uniforms. He tucks a bouquet of knives in every niche he can find. 

 

Maybe Klaus was right to leave, Diego thinks as he ducks under Luther’s arm. He haphazardly throws a knife that grazes Luther’s hand. The latter grunts and tries to knock him off balance. Allison trips him and Diego scrambles away from the two of them. 

And he was goddamned sick of the two teaming up against him. High or not, Klaus stayed on his team. Now the numbers just weren’t fair. He’d take Vanya at this point- all those years playing violin assured she’d be strong enough. 

 

“Don’t retreat Number Two!” 

_ I’ll retreat if I fucking want.  _

Allison and Luther watch him, downright predatory. Their domino masks hang mockingly from their faces. They don’t look like his siblings anymore. They look like targets.

(He hates when he gets like this.)

 

Diego removes two knives from his belt (hidden away under his blazer) and shows them to Luther and Allison. If the cautious faces of One and Three are anything to go by, they know full well he’s about to go unhinged. 

Before charging, he meets eyes with Vanya across the room. She’s on a bench beside Reginald and clutching onto a clipboard. He knows she’s afraid too- the dismay in her face is an impeccable mirror of every criminal he’s defaced. 

 

Diego veers to the left, just where Luther expected him to go. Diego throws his knife in the air, taking the distraction as a chance to secure Luther’s defeat. Diego hooks him in the jaw and raises a knee to his gut. Luther’s about to shove him off, but Diego’s taken a dive to pointedly cut Luther’s ankle with the knife that had landed conveniently close.

Luther hollers. And there’s an unexpectedly primal part of Diego that wants to  _ apologize.  _ Apologize for the father that turned moldable children into monsters. Apologize for all the overwhelming rancor and rage that came from years of a clusterfuck childhood of fighting crime. Apologize for the family that was falling apart, one number at a time. 

But he doesn’t. He takes another jab on the other foot and ignores his father’s yelling. He dashes to Allison- reasonably uneasy. 

“Diego, calm down-” Her voice is murky and trembling and distorted. It sounds like he’s underwater. Maybe he was. Diego had spent  _ hours  _ underwater in his father’s so-called  _ private training.  _

He parries with the remaining knife- having shed the bloodied one over by where Luther was now also begging for him to calm down.  _ Now he was Number One.  _

_ But that’s never what it was about.  _

It was about survival. Number One didn’t have it hard. The rest did. 

 

Allison’s lip quivers. She looks so grown up over the silver blade- hair to her elbows in natural tight curls, the dots of hastily applied mascara below her eyebrows, the way she stood so tall, the way she looked like someone who didn’t want to cry (anymore).

The way she didn’t Rumor him. 

 

He drops the knife and uses the stroke they’d all used when they were tired of inflicting pain. Diego (on autopilot in a way nobody should be while winning a fight) numbly puts her in a headlock and brings her to the ground. He doesn’t look at either of his siblings when Vanya blows the whistle. He doesn’t look at Dad either. 

Behind him, Luther and Allison throw arms around each other and follow. 

 

“Number Two. You didn’t win today,” Reginald says. “And you should never expect to be praised if you resort to using your foolish temper drive you into reckless decisions. I expect better from you.” 

Diego doesn’t say a word; even when they crawl up his burning throat and swarm like mites. He doesn’t say a word. 

“Number One, Number Three, you handled Two’s outburst poorly. Number One, don’t give him the advantage of reacting to the injuries he inflicts. Number Three, don’t hesitate to fight back. That’s what I bring you here for- the cause of these sessions is to prevent freezing up during a high-risk mission.” 

He blinks the red moisture in his eyes away. He ignores the sound of Vanya scribbling on her clipboard. He swallows around the profanities in his mouth- souring by the minute. He doesn’t say a word.

 

Luther nods. The puppet indulges the puppeteer. “Yes, sir.” 

“Sorry, Dad. I’ll do better next time,” Allison says.

 

“Twenty minutes. Go eat lunch.” Said in Reginald’s apathetically charming manner. (Something Klaus would say if he were here.)

 

Diego turns on his heels, itching to leave. He wants to see Mom. He’s almost at the door when Allison beats him there. She’s holding his knives. 

She shoves the knives against his chest with a flourish. Diego flinches as she strides out past him. Luther hung back with their father. 

_ Of course.  _

 

Dinner has just concluded and their classes have been put to rest. Now if only Diego could shut himself off and stop gravitating towards the front door. 

Starting a life of his own would be so  _ easy.  _ He could go get a job, earn money, and rent a small place. The Police Academy held a certain appeal- saving lives and doing what he was quite literally devised to do. They were taking applications. He’d seen it in the newspaper. 

Was this it? No more convoluted plans and wounds that they didn’t have the sutures to close? 

If he considered it for too long, he’d end up bowing out. Diego wasn’t about to let this fly by. 

_ I’m getting out of here.  _

 

He beelines to the kitchen and sees Mom humming while washing their dishes. He jumps in beside her, putting them in the dishwasher. Mom turns off the running water. She smiles at him- all love and red-lipstick. Diego chokes on a sob that he didn’t anticipate. 

“Diego? Shouldn’t you be heading to study before bed?” 

“Oh. I’m skipping tonight, Mom.”

Grace tuts. “Darling, you shouldn’t skip your studies. Your father will be disappointed.” 

He closes the cupboard, putting extra effort into not slamming it at the mention of Reginald. “Yeah, well, I don’t care if he’s mad.” 

Then puts his hands on her shoulders. So real. The one good thing Reginald ever did with his time was engineer the only real person Diego would miss in this household. 

“Mom I’m go-” The stutter had chosen the perfect moment to resurface. “Mom, I-I’m go-goi-” He sighs, frustrated. “Mom, I’m-” 

She puts a hand on his cheek. Diego leans into it, knowing this is the last affection he’ll get after he leaves for good. “Just picture the word in your mind,” she says. 

Diego nods frantically. He swallows, taking a breath that shakes his frame. 

“Mom, I’m go-going aw-ay.” The last isn’t a stutter. It’s his rasp as a sob nearly urges him to throw away his whole plan. (Sometimes he thinks he should have stayed. Not until he traces the irate scar across his temple- not until he remembers the man who put it there.) 

The expression that shadows Grace’s face is… what ends wars. Her brows furrowed and her lips pout. Her eyes go uncharacteristically wide and she lifts her chin. “Diego, why don’t I make you some hot cocoa?”

_ Yes. Say yes.  _

“That’s okay Mom,” He says. Diego fights every inclination to vehemently hug her before he goes- prepared to never return to the house. He’ll see his siblings around. 

 

He hurries out of the kitchen- intent on packing a decent supply of saved cash and food. In his rush, he almost runs straight into Reginald. 

“Where are you going?” The old man sneers. 

A sudden burst of confidence. “I’m getting my ass out of here.” 

“Language!” Grace. 

“You’re going to your room. You can’t follow Number Four wherever he goes. Go, now.” There’s a hard edge to his voice that Diego used to be terrified to hear. Now it spurs him- thrills him further. 

“I’m not doing this for Klaus. I’m doing this because  _ this  _ is no way to raise a child. Saving the world isn’t our  _ fucking  _ problem, Dad,” Diego says, daggers dripping from his words. “If they know what’s good for them, Allison and Luther will do the same.” 

Reginald looks displeased at most.  _ Why isn’t he yelling?  _

“I’ll see you in the morning, Number Two.” 

Diego stomps on the floor, setting the tone in his favor and basking in the momentary disturbance. Reginald has to hold his jaw from dropping and it’s the greatest sight he’s seen today. 

“I’m not coming back. Not when this house finally crumbles down. Not  _ ever.  _ You’re a terrible father. I hate you!” 

No doubt his words can’t be heard by the two remaining in their rooms by now. Diego could blame it on the adrenaline but he really just  _ doesn’t care.  _

He starts to shoulder his way past Reginald. He’s stopped by the hand gripping his elbow. It squeezes just a little to hard- as if it’s digging for his breaking point. 

“If you’re so determined to survive on your own out there, in a world you’ve already seen the worst of, Number Two, then go.” 

_ Wait, what the fuck?  _

“You have the stubborn will to disobey me and the cowardice to abandon the Academy, then leave.” 

“I will! Fuck you!” 

 

Diego promptly throws a knife past Reginald’s head and to the wall behind it. He doesn’t wait to take glory in the reaction before he storms out. He's seething.

Okay. So he’s unprepared. So was Klaus, probably. That’s fine. He’ll be  _ fine.  _

Diego shuts the front door as hard as he can. The house rattles over his thumping heart. 

They didn’t get to eat dinner some nights if they were bad. He can stand a little hunger. 

 

Diego has no clue where he’s going. Just  _ away.  _

The night is dark but the moon is full. He’s guided well enough. 

 

Is this how Five and Klaus felt?  _ Empty and alive.  _

At least he wasn't dead.  _ Ben.  _

 

He didn’t even get to say goodbye. 

Diego didn’t think about the times before he and Luther’s competition surpassed friendly, or how he and Allison used to pester Five until the latter hauled his textbooks at them. Not about how Klaus would creep into his room at night with dubious anecdotes and stolen treasures. Never about the times that Ben would help him with his homework. Definitely not Vanya’s violin playing, which soundtracked his life up until it all changed. 

He looks at his hands and realizes he’s still in his uniform. He’ll have to acquire some new clothes. He can find a way to sneak back in for some carry-ons tomorrow. 

 

"Mi hermano," A creaky, alluring, unforgettable voice comes from under the dumpster.

Diego startles, hands flying to where he kept a knife strapped to his side. 

To his amazement, a fairly bedraggled Klaus is hanging from a dumpster near the outer walls of the mansion. 

"You happen to grab any money on your way out, buddy?" He's definitely high- hands twitching around nothing and cloudy eyes. He was smiling crazily and Diego wanted to barrel him over. 

Diego shakes his head, speechless. He didn't think he'd see Klaus for a while. Sure, eventually they'd bump into each other in the streets, but so soon? 

"Ooh," sighs Klaus. "Did you graduate the Academy?" 

Diego shrugs emptily. "I left." 

A gasp. "Christ on a cracker! It's like Another One Bites The Dust in there isn't it?" 

 Diego wants to laugh but the last remaining bits of his steely resolve are all he has right now. 

"Klaus," Diego says. "Are you doing okay?" 

Klaus quirks a brow and laughs. "I'm doing swell! What about you, Diego?  _ The Kraken _ ?" 

Diego doesn't want  _ The Kraken _ anymore. He shakes his head to repel the label. "Me too." 

After a moment. "Do you have any money?" He clearly needed some. For one, he'd asked Diego. And over the dumpster, his shirtless and looming figure revealed prominent ribs. (Maybe he'd been like that all along though- ghosts didn't exactly evoke hunger) 

"Money is propaganda!" 

Those are last words he hears from Klaus as the former abruptly walks away. 

 

Diego stalks off with a half-mended smile and a baking plan to break into the house. He had some money and leftover knives to get. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you think! Comments and kudos fuel me!


	3. In The Zone With My Lovely Bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from Lonely Road by Willow!

The dinner table was a lot smaller when half of them were gone. Allison stuffed a forkful of mashed potatoes in her mouth to the sound of Herr Carlson’s voice. She avoided the brussel sprouts- Diego usually swiped them from her plate with a mantra of _my body is a temple._  
(A temple that had gone with the ghosts.) 

Luther was across from her. During the first month of Diego and Klaus’ absence (and Ben’s, but they didn’t talk about that. Under no circumstances were they to mention Number Six’s gruesome death) he’d done his best to charm her out of her funk with futile kicks under the table and cumbersome grins that used to make her laugh during group training.

She didn’t want to laugh anymore. There were no more sarcastic bites from Diego nor dramatic displays from Klaus. Not to mention zero cynical mouthings off from Five or quiet one-liners from Ben. 

They’d lost more than they ever got. 

 

She swallows around the bitter taste of vegetables and abandonment. The food tastes the same despite the ever-decreasing amount of residents who show up to consume it. 

 

Pogo and Grace didn’t share meals with them. Vanya was cooped up in her room playing violin. Dad didn’t even show up much anymore- he made them listen to his numskull radio programs alone. 

Hint; they never got interesting. 

 

Luther nudges her foot under the table. She ignores it, intent on finishing dinner so she can get to bed and get her thoughts to  _ leave her alone.  _ Something deprived in her was urging her to leave too- find Diego and Klaus (maybe even Five, who knew what was happening out there?) and hold them tight as they pretended that the Umbrella Academy was lost in the rain and the three of them were climbing the rainbow. 

Two, Three, and Four. Maybe she could drag Luther and Vanya into it too. They could find Five and ask Klaus about Ben. (He might have been telling the truth about seeing their dead brother.)

 

But that was too far fetched for the prestigious (torturous, a life sentence to heroism that none of them asked for) Umbrella Academy. 

Luther kicks again- shoe colliding with her sore legs. 

Allison- carefully, as to not alert their father, who  _ was  _ eating with them this evening, shakes her fist at him. It would be so easy:  _ I heard a rumor you didn’t try to make me happy anymore.  _ But she still wanted him to try. Perhaps it would work. 

So she watches Luther shake his fist back and then stills against the brush of his ankle playing against hers, softer this time. He’s trying to smile around his glass of milk and she’s trying to smile back. The turn of her lips stifles itself when she sees the decadent, lost heaviness in his eyes. (Luther was just stoic enough for her to shoulder his suffering, but not detached enough for her to ignore the way his eyes were red and puffy even through his piling triumphs. One could be the loneliest number, One could be the winner of who wallowed in his hell the longest.)

Another kick. Allison nearly yells. 

 

She’s too old for this. He’s trying to coax her from under the sheet of her melancholia and Allison doesn’t feel like letting him. A few tears to wash her vision made things clear enough. She feels the moisture in her eyes before it comes and shortly excuses herself from the table. She dashes up the stairs, already wiping frantically at her eyes. 

She never used to cry. Not when Five or Diego forgot to hold back in training and not when she pushed her puny face into the bulking evil of criminals and terrorists and watched in third-person as she cut their lives off like a string. Never in private training when she ruined people’s lives to test how far her powers would stretch. Not when she begged Reginald to let her stop. But she began to grow close with the choked off throat and the tight chest after Five left and Ben died and Klaus vanished and Diego broke. 

 

She’s curled into a ball in her soft vanity chair, eyeing herself in the mirror with the kind of cunning disposition that reminded her that she was less human and more of whatever Reginald had made her to be.

Allison, through the veil of hyperventilating and burning eyelids, fixates on the senses. A particular scent of vanilla glides through her room- a candle that Ben had given her for their birthday a year ago. She shivers in her uniform. She doesn’t know if she’s shivering because of discontentment of the sudden cool in the air. 

The husk of everything that this household was meant to bring lays at her feet. It’s all hers to fold and right now she wants to slam the casket shut and get out of here. 

 

She loved her cozy room and her pink feather boa that hung off of the coat rack. She reveled in the soft blankets. (but remembered how thin they were. The fabric never quite concealed the sounds she didn’t want to hear.) Would she be able to up and leave?

 

Five did; at thirteen years old and dangerously unstable condition. Klaus had, all the while drunk on poisons and hopefully in rehab since he had the chance to go now. Diego would be fine as long as he didn’t lash out and get arrested. 

She wondered if he was still mad at them and if that made leaving any easier. Just because she wanted to go didn’t make it simple by any means.

Allison takes her perception of the world in doses. They began at a young age- in the backyard, engaged in mindless adolescent games, and soon moved to small glances out of car windows on the way to save people, then moved to her venturing out on her own in between training. 

On her first day, she walked slowly, let the sun drape over her shoulders as much as it could in midwinter. She made the mistake of wearing her uniform out and thus being bombarded by eager  _ fans.  _ It was somewhat sick- adults finding an indulgent joy in children winning their battles for them. Or other kids wishing they could fight too when they knew nothing of what fighting was when it wasn’t in a movie. 

Her second, she dressed in an overcoat over one of Grace’s dresses that she’d always found pretty- a deep blue with a frilly bottom. She felt like a princess and this time she was the one leaving the castle. (Watching it metaphorically fall to pieces behind her as she walked into an empty theatre with a small sign reading  _ auditions  _ at the front.)

 

Luther wanted to be the prince so bad. That night when she’d left dinner early, he’d knocked and slipped a cherry lollipop under her door. Those were her favorite. 

She didn’t eat it- saw it as succumbing to Luther and the Academy and felt guilty by association. She slipped it in an old drawer and wiped her eyes dry.

She saw the way he was wrinkling at the edges too- how his reserve was growing thin and how his enthusiasm ebbed as she to stuck around less and less.

 

It was a surprise to no one when Allison left- a large purse stocked with money and her favorite things in hand. Grace gave her the last of the chocolate chip cookies and Pogo politely asked her to visit, knowing full well she wouldn’t. Luther hung back. He didn’t look at her. She was okay with that. 

Vanya was taking her pill in the kitchen, and gravitate away from Allison’s renewing energy as she hugged their mother goodbye.

 

Reginald didn’t show. That was fine. 

 

And on opening night of the play she’d rumored herself into, she saw two scraggly figures in the audience. One was stocky with a resolute frown she didn’t see herself missing all too much, and another was bundled in a patchy jacket and smoking a cigarette. (Of course he knew it was against the rules in the venue.)

They didn’t approach her after, but they were  _ there.  _

 

She stopped rumoring when a year had passed of living with other starving actresses. She didn’t rumor herself into her first apartment or latest penthouse or show-stopping role. 

 

Allison achieved it all herself because she didn’t fucking  _ need  _ rumors. She needed the truth and that’s what she’s determined to live. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware of my excessive use of the words 'and/or' in this chapter and I'm okay with it lmao  
> Thanks for reading!  
> Comments and kudos are nice :)


	4. It’s Not The Waking, It’s The Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm so sorry about the delay of this chapter (and on every other fic in case you read those too lol)  
> I had a dance show, finals week, and the first few days of summer have been hectic. However, I'm back and here to stay!
> 
> Please enjoy this chapter!

The birthday shared by seven was spent alone by seven. The Seventh herself was leant against the banister above the parlor (which had been terribly hushed for the last year- no ruckus from Two through Six and certainly nothing louder than stomping from One and usually turning book pages and violin lilts from Seven.) flipping through sheet music. 

Reginald was recluse. He was shut up in his lab, occupied with reprogramming Grace. Maybe now she’d stop letting them leave. Not that there was much to save by now.

Vanya didn’t much talk to Luther (didn’t speak to any of them often, really.) but she’d gotten a rooted fear that he’d be leaving soon, too. When the rest of their siblings were around, Five and Ben had been the closest to her. The three of them went through the books in the library like leeches. She enjoyed biographies and mystery. (She read myths and poetry too, but she kept that to herself.) Five balanced her by choosing textbooks, essays, and crime novels. When he wasn’t hellbent on solving the latest equation or formula, the two of them would craft messy (but eloquent) posters depicting all the different possibilities the plot in their latest novel would turn out. Vanya recalled the time that Five guessed wrong. He shut himself away for a week and rewrote a page of the book out of spite. She’d preferred his interpretation better, actually. 

Ben had read every subject and genre on the spectrum. He was also determined to share the storylines with everyone- not just Vanya and Ben. After missions, they’d gather in Ben’s room when they could. (Ben usually had it the roughest when the day was done- either quiet with maniac eyes or comatose and drenched in blood.) If Ben was hard to coax out of his stupor, they’d ask him to talk about his latest book. Sometimes, he’d veer straight into a captivating story plot about vampires or adventures, or he’d spew out facts that would stupify even Five. Other times, whoever could talk clearly without a shaky voice or tears in their throat would read his books until he fell asleep. Vanya never volunteered. Five, Luther, and Allison rotated most of the time- handing the book to each other every few pages or paragraphs. Klaus read a few times, when the rest were huddled around Ben- wiping off the leftover blemishes with warm cloths and fetching glasses of water. Diego had read once. He’d hardly stuttered at all, and Vanya was bustling with pride. 

She read alone nowadays. She didn’t look Luther in the eye because he was too tall. There was no semblance of Ben to read to and no Ben to listen because he was dead. 

 

Vanya had played the music from this small book for years- but it all seemed hazy and unfamiliar today. The entire house did, without a family to occupy it. 

 

She walks the halls, hoping to stumble across something that would evoke a feeling from her. She didn’t know why she was so subdued- she’d felt nearly nothing since Ben died. Before that, Vanya hadn’t been emotional either, but now she was practically numb. 

No,  _ hollow.  _

 

There was a hole in her arm where the makeshift marker Umbrella Academy tattoo washed away in dark bathwater. There were holes in her back where Klaus used to squeeze when he hugged her. Her eyes didn’t exist because Allison saw past them whenever she tried to find Vanya’s pupils. There was a rip in her sweater pocket (they’d discontinued the uniform-wearing rules when Luther grew out of them and there were no longer other boys to wear the hand-me-downs.) seared with the three-inch knife Diego had slipped her at fifteen years old with the stern words to  _ keep herself safe.  _ From what? The fights she got to stand by and  _ watch? Luther and his punching bag?  _

Dry humor and stone cold emptiness didn’t mix. 

 

Vanya paces fruitlessly and panics when she sees Grace dusting one of the dressers at the end of the hall. She looked the same. She didn’t look  _ reprogrammed.  _

“Vanya! Darling, what are you doing all the way up here?” 

She stares ahead. 

“You’ll get a headache with how stuffy it is. Let’s make lunch! Luther will be done with his training in a few hours,” She says, motherly coo something that melted Vanya’s edges. “He’ll appreciate a nice meal.” 

 

She follows Grace, timid as ever. Did anyone ever grow up in this house? Wherever they were, the seven were just fractured kids that were forced to grow up. The damn trauma they all carried was so weighty the house couldn’t even hold it anymore. 

How long would the world stand it? 

(That sounds like something paranoid Five would say in the midst of the night when they had flashlights illuminating their faces.)

 

Her eyes water a bit, and it’s not the onions she’s chopping up. Vanya’s skin feels unfitted around her- crawling with mites that used to crawl in the walls of the house. 

Maybe she wasn’t scared of Luther leaving too. Maybe Vanya was scared of  _ staying.  _

 

Caught up in thinking about leaving the house- living on her own terms and without the crushing isolation suffocating her at every turn- Vanya nicks her finger with the knife. She swallows the small hiss of pain and informs Grace that she’ll  _ be right back.  _

She sucks the small trickle of blood on her thumb and closes the door behind her softly. Through one of the windows, she sees Pogo wiping down the glass with a wounded look in his eyes. Vanya doesn’t see why, nobody should even notice she’s gone. 

 

No, she’ll be back. She’s just getting groceries. They were out of orange juice and running low on the expensive silverware Reginald collected. (It had been disappearing lately. She had a feeling it had something to do with the frequent sounds of someone climbing back through his window at night. However scrappy, Klaus was clever, cashing off of old antiques he’d often not-so-subtly steal from his old home.) 

Vanya isn’t buying more things for Klaus to steal, (she knew it wasn’t Diego because his knife collection remained intact, and Diego wouldn’t break in and leave without extra knives.) she’s just restocking the house for when she isn’t there to shop in the future. 

 

Yeah. Sounds about right. 

 

She walks the few blocks with zero interruptions by strangers. Diego and Klaus and Allison probably didn’t walk so peacefully- they’d always been clung onto by the press, recognizable after a double take. 

 

The weather is pleasant, as if the sun’s attempting to combat the downpour and thrashing thunder that Vanya feels she is trudging through. Passerbys,  _ normal, average,  _ people chatter incessantly, carelessly. She didn’t know whether she wished to fit in with them or the family she used to have. Now she was too impaired, broken and timid, to get in with them, and not special enough for anything else. 

She’d have to make a home out of the inbetween. 

 

The store that she’d been to a few times was under crowded today, with minimal lines and stocked isles. Vanya examines the folded twenties in her pocket, both saved allowance and stolen scraps. (She’d been guilty, but it’s what Five would have wanted, she thinks- for his leftover money to be spent on a good cause. And to him, dismissive enough to let her hang around him and tepid, thoroughly unboiled by the dangerous waters around them, she was a good enough cause.) She purchases a carton of milk, orange juice, some plastic forks so Klaus would get the memo that his antics weren’t as low-key as he thought, and a variety of food. She gets herself a pack of mints, a small gesture with a big connotation. 

This is the last time she does something for the Academy. She’s through with that now. 

 

The cashier is around her age, with strawberry-blonde hair, bright eyes, and a nose piercing. She was the only person who looked inherently kind to Vanya this entire time she’d been out. And it went further. 

The cashier squints. “You okay?” 

Vanya must have made a face, because the woman waves her hand as if to take her words back. “It’s not that you look bad or anything, I’m just good at reading people and you seem a bit down.” 

“No no no, it’s fine,” Vanya says. “I could be better.” 

She smiles, showing radiant teeth. Vanya feels an awakening- the longing to smile back and let everything be mended. But she keeps herself neutral and resigns herself to pressing her lips together as the woman- Catherine, as it said on her name tag, replies. 

“Hm, well, I hope you do feel better. Have a good day!” 

Vanya lets her guard down just long enough to offer the smile she’d been wanting to give. “You too!” 

 

She’s oddly giddy on the walk home. Her only introduction of the world was watching criminals and terrorists from a distance. And the majority of her family wasn’t exactly an appealing sample of humanity- but Catherine, and all that she stood for, may just be a world Vanya wouldn’t mind living in. 

 

So why shouldn’t she? Why shouldn’t she have the same shot that Klaus, Diego, and Allison had already gunned? Five and Ben would want her to. 

That drove the point home. 

 

Vanya knocks on the door and it stung like a vampire touching garlic. For once, she anticipated the sting and let it burrow in her skin no further than a mild itch. Pogo opened it with caution set into his features. 

(Pogo always knew things before they happened. He was probably the wisest occupant in the household, and she would miss him. Maybe she’d come back to visit- just for Pogo.) 

“Vanya! You were gone for hours.” 

_ Was she?  _ She shrugs. “Sorry, it was nice out today.” 

Pogo nods. “Why don’t you come in? Grace made dinner.” 

“It’s all yours Pogo.” 

 

And the subtext was received. Pogo slumps just a little bit. 

“At least pack up some things. Don’t be reckless.” 

 

Vanya does- a few outfits and leftovers that Grace urges her to take. She even snags a book from Five and Ben’s respective rooms, two souvenirs from the two people she used to trust most. And of course, her violin and her music. 

 

She passes Luther’s room as she’s leaving her own. 

“You’re leaving,” he says, none too bluntly.  

Vanya nods. 

“Be careful out there.” 

Her and Luther really were two very different sides of the same coin. One and Seven. The one left out in the sun too long and the one who was hidden in his shadow. They both concealed what broke them- and were both broken by the same tool: Reginald Hargreeves’ idealism. Luther bent too far and Vanya stayed too stiff. 

She was ready to move, and he was intent on remaining a statue for Reginald to carve even deeper. Vanya couldn’t change that. 

(He wouldn’t listen to her, anyways. Why try.)

 

But Vanya takes those words for the priceless instance they were- Luther wishing some good on her. Then she’s off into the future she’d just turned upside down. 

 

Within a month, she’d gone back to the store and befriended Catherine, who helped her get her first job. Then she’d rented out an apartment. Soon enough, she’d established a career out of violin lessons and started a novel- one that would expose the Great Reginald Hargreeves as a perfunctory scientist and a despicable human being. (Also one that would tear the Umbrella Academy down from its pedestal and show it how terribly it had mained seven children. Not to mention how terribly the seven children had mailed themselves. Maiming was all they’d learned how to do.)

 

Klaus continued to jeopardize himself through drugs while Ben agonized over on the sidelines. Each day brought new grievances from Six and depths from Four. Though, there were moments of fun. As Klaus would gradually come down from a high, and Ben would tell a joke to which Klaus would reciprocate to and they would build up a foundation of companionship they’d been isolated from having as children. In death, Ben didn’t find rest, but he did find Klaus who was willing to give him a little life. And Klaus found Ben, who did his best to keep him from dying. (Sometimes it worked.)

 

Diego found no such calm. He wasn’t one who could be pacified. Though, he did find a man who was a better version of himself- anger festering deep enough that he wouldn’t have to endure the burning anymore, ambition that could quell the anger when it got loose, and a steadiness he’d never had before. He found a home in a boiler room, and while knowing his condition could be improved, it was somehow enough. He was far enough from the past and inching closer to the future every time he saw Eudora Patch at work. (Until he didn’t.)

 

Allison enjoyed fame. She genuinely did. Money wasn’t a problem, love wasn’t an issue, but the guilt of having cheated her way through did abide in her thoughts nightly. But, Patrick was nurturing and understanding and even on the worst days, when the Academy crept back into her vision- thoughts of  _ how are Klaus and Diego faring on the streets? or how are Luther and Vanya at home?  _ No. Not home.  _ This  _ was home. Here, with her beautiful daughter and her attentive husband. (Would she ever feel at home?)

 

Vanya would forever be set apart from the sense of normality and the sense of valor. Parts of her begrudged the world, her former home, her family, and every other nearby sign for messing up the past she couldn’t alter. But the rest thrived in her quiet life- educating kids who saw her as an angel of music and not fallen mess from Heaven. She enjoyed meeting figures at her book readings and was satisfied by what she’d written. This was her life, solitude and hot chocolate at the coffeehouse down the street. 

 

(She just hoped it stayed that way.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking around! Hope you liked it!

**Author's Note:**

> Wishing the Seance some luck bc I love him and he needs it  
> Let me know what you think of this so far! I'd love to hear it!


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